


Napoleon Solo's Guide on Building a Family

by AngeNoir



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Cold War, Communism, Consensual Sex, Cunnilingus, Explicit Consent, F/M, Family, Frottage, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Pack Dynamics, Post-World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-10 00:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7823164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the first time Illya took two days personal time, and Napoleon had really wanted to show Illya some of his favorite haunts in London. Pushing Waverly, however, only reveals that as an omega, Illya had the right to request personal time.</p><p>Which, let's be honest - <em>omega</em>? Napoleon had no idea.</p><p>That makes his long-term goals a lot easier, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Napoleon Solo's Guide on Building a Family

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wallflowering](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallflowering/gifts).



It wasn’t very long in their acquaintance together that Napoleon realized why Illya was so stiff all the time.

“An _omega_?” he repeated, flabbergasted.

Waverly arched one eyebrow, looking up from the large amount of paperwork strewn across his desk in his office at the London headquarters for UNCLE. “Does it matter?”

“No – why should it? I just didn’t even know – well—” he broke off, awkwardly realizing how his words could be taken. After all, just because the revolution in the Soviet Union had done its level best to eradicate all omegas and alphas, to put everyone on even footing through state-mandated chemical regimens that dulled alphas to beta levels and suppressed omega hormones ruthlessly, didn’t mean that such genocide was something talked about in polite company – let alone when asking why Illya had taken private time for two days.

But – two days? And just now, not during any of their missions or time together previous? This was a mystery Napoleon was determined to solve.

“Now you do,” Waverly said, dismissing Napoleon by dropping his gaze and returning to peruse the sheets in front of him. “If you would be so kind to bother someone else at this time? I’m rather behind in cobbling together a decent report file from your last escapade in Seville.”

Napoleon almost – almost – took umbrage at that, but it was true that their task force was better on the practical side than the reporting side of the missions.

Still, he cleared his throat and attempted again, “Did Kuryakin – request his secondary gender be kept hidden from us? From me, at least – I assume Gaby knows.”

“Gaby does not know,” Waverly sighed, leaning back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Illya knows only the bare minimum about his secondary gender, and from what I gather, believed it to be of no consequence to his ability to complete the mission. I disclosed this to you under the strictest of confidences, because I _do not want you_ to forcibly track him down and upset him, and _I_ know because Agent Oleg disclosed it to me as a means of controlling Illya’s rages and moods.”

Napoleon – did his best not to show any outwardly sign of his fury, but apparently he wasn’t very good at it, as Waverly arched an eyebrow at Napoleon and said in his dry, unassuming way, “I was never going to use it, Solo, and you know that. The idea of using an omega’s biological systems and hormone receptors to induce rages or periods of calmness is not something I condone.”

He didn’t know how to say what was really bothering him, and honestly he didn’t know how to put into words what he was feeling right now in regards to Illya’s status, but it was clear Waverly was losing patience with him.

It was time to try other avenues.

***

“Did you know Illya’s secondary gender?”

Gaby let out a frustrated sigh from underneath the car. “Solo, is there a point beyond your nosiness that leads you to ask?”

“Did you know that he’s requested private time? And that he hasn’t ever before this specific instance?”

Gaby rolled out from underneath the car, sweaty strands of hair stuck against her forehead and neck. “Is there any particular reason this bee is in your bonnet today, Mr. Solo? Other than to irritate me and pry where you’re not wanted, I’m assuming.”

Napoleon rolled his shoulders and shrugged, dropping his gaze and turning his head to expose his neck a little. “I thought – well.” He cleared his throat, looked for a way to explain why it mattered to him, but he couldn’t figure it out, couldn’t verbalize it. Finally, he sighed and tilted his chin even more. “I don’t know what I thought.”

For a moment, Gaby stared up at him from her position on the floor, and Napoleon knew what he was trying to come at obliquely was dangerous for her, and for Illya, but no consequences would fall on his head – he was a beta, a ‘mundane,’ someone both safe and perfectly normal. Society liked to think a beta would never ask for a triad, a pack formation. Betas were respectfully and civilly monogamous, unlike alphas and omegas. Society liked to paint both alphas and omegas as irrational beings of emotions, as people who needed to be controlled, who needed to become more like betas to fit in, and he’d never been around someone as unapologetically alpha as Gaby. He had had a sister, who was an omega and someone Napoleon had protected, eagerly, and he had known a cousin, an alpha who continuously had tried to make himself smaller and quieter than everyone around him.

Napoleon liked the people he designated as family to be safe, and to be happy. He liked to provide, and he liked to protect. He enjoyed being a thief, loved matching his wits against people who thought they were smarter, but that was only one aspect of how he loved to show off, loved others to admire him.

He wanted these two, that were so important to him, to see him as family. And even if, society-wise, it wasn’t just wrong to have a female alpha, it wasn’t just wrong to have a male omega, it was _entirely_ wrong to have a triad, well… it was what he _wanted_.

He’d never been very good at denying himself from things that he wanted.

So he kept his head tilted, bent, making it as clear as he could without any actual words that this was what he was thinking, this was what he wanted, this was what he was desperately trying to pull together.

There was a heavy sigh from the floor, and then the creaking as Gaby slid the dolly forward and stood up.

Napoleon cut his eyes to the side as she picked up a towel, cleaned off her hands. “You always come to me, Mr. Solo, and change my life in situations like this that I am not sure I am happy with.”

“It depends on you, of course,” Napoleon said, in a deceptively submissive voice.

A sharp laugh, like a ringing bell, escaped her throat, and she moved to stand in front of him, her still-grease-stained hand reaching up to cup his throat, hold it in a deceptively strong grip. “You play at being subservient, Mr. Solo, but if you think I do not recognize manipulations, you are the blind one here.”

Her voice was teasing, calm, and even a little fond and amused, which meant she wasn’t saying _no_ in any definitive way. Napoleon turned his head a little to lean into her palm, to flick his dancing eyes to her considering gaze. “Well,” he said, voice so sweet butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, “you have to admit; with what I want, I can’t exactly tell you – or Illya – directly, not without… scouting the field, first. Evaluating the information and responses I may receive.” He paused, and made a small face. “ _Especially_ Illya.”

“Mmm,” she murmured, and then she brought her other hand up, cupped Napoleon’s face, and pulled his face to the junction of her neck.

For all that, after the War, it was an ‘enlightened’ age, where man controlled science and did not let science – hormones, and biology – control them, there was something indefinable, inexplicable, about the scent of an alpha. Napoleon felt his eyes flutter shut, and he breathed in deep, scenting the soft glands behind her ears that held the scent. It was muted, of course, covered with grease and perfume, scents meant to confuse and mask something that was no longer polite to show in mixed company, but it was still present. It was still _alpha_.

It comforted Napoleon’s lizard brain, held him tight, offered protection and _family_.

He wanted it, had been aiming for it, since their very first mission, since watching smoke curl up from the tape on that table. And now, it was finally in his reach.

Gaby let out a hum, pressed her lips to the crown of his head and then let him go. “Illya will not be easy to convince.”

Or, almost in his reach.

But he was confident he could talk Illya around.

***

It didn’t take him long to figure out where Illya had rented an apartment, and it was a severe building, the apartments most likely tiny and Spartan. Illya’s Russian homeland showing through, Napoleon assumed.

There was little to no movement on Illya’s floor. This was where many daily professionals lived, based on the décor and the position of the apartment building itself, but Napoleon still leaned close, made sure that he couldn’t pick up on any other sounds in the nearby apartments. Gaby was downstairs in the taxi – he was paying, and if Illya didn’t want them, he’d just turn around and go back home with her. It would hurt, of course, to know that Illya didn’t want them, didn’t want to work with them in the way they wanted him.

But he was fairly certain his flirtations hadn’t been entirely rebuffed, and he _knew_ Illya was enamored of Gaby. Hopefully it would work.

He knocked heavily on the door, and when no one answered, knocked again. After the third knocking, he leaned against the door. “Peril, we can do this through the door, or we can do it in private,” he called out.

There was still no answer, and he sighed. “I could just come in, Peril.”

Still no answer, and after the sixth round of knocking, he dropped down to the keyhole and started to pull out his lockpicks.

The door swung open, and Napoleon had to admit – it was the first time he’d ever seen Illya as less than perfectly put together.

His hair was wet, matted down against his skin, and his skin was flushed. Sweat beaded against his upper lip, but he was shivering badly. A dressing gown was pulled tight around his body, and his legs and feet were bare. “Cowboy, this is – most unpleasant. What is the problem?”

Napoleon cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his throat. “Well – I was just wondering? I mean—” he broke off, and breathed in deep. “Alright, do you want to do this out here or inside?”

Illya was shifting on his feet, and the uncharacteristically nervous gesture confirmed what Napoleon suspected.

“Look, Illya—”

The familiarity of his first name made Illya’s face scrunch up, but Napoleon soldiered on.

“—I asked Waverly why you would be out of contact. I annoyed him enough that he told me.”

Illya’s face became blank, and quickly Napoleon rushed on, trying to excuse the first breach of privacy by explaining his position.

“But we’re the – I know it’s not socially acceptable, that it’s not supposed to be good, but I know that you, that you like Gaby, right? That first mission, I knew it, I saw the way you watched her, the way you followed her around. And – it might be arrogant, but I’m sure, or, I’m mostly sure, you weren’t – averse to my… attentions.”

“Get to the point, Cowboy,” Illya huffed, and with the door open for so long, Napoleon could smell the small false heat scent, the muted thickness, heaviness in the air that indicated Illya’s body was fighting with him.

“We would like to help. You.” Napoleon cleared his throat again and made a small expansive motion. “Surely you have noticed we are the, the three. A triad.”

Illya hesitated – and that wasn’t a flat-out no, that wasn’t a recoil of disgust, there was nothing there that signaled Illya’s first response was a flat-out ‘no.’ Pressing his luck, Napoleon said quickly, “Let us try. Just today, just this time. And you can decide if it ever happens again. You are still in full control of your faculties, obviously. You can make a decision now, even if it is a no, and we’ll abide by it. I’d like to revisit the topic, obviously, but it’s always up to you.”

“You… and Gaby?” Illya asked, and there was – well, Napoleon didn’t want to read too much into it, but it sounded like a note of hope underneath the flat monotone, the rough accent biting into the English words.

Napoleon inclined his head, tilted his chin to bare his neck.

Illya’s nostrils flared, and his knuckles tightened against the door, his other arm clutching tighter against his belly. “I don’t know, Cowboy,” he whispered. “This is not – this is not the Russian way.”

“If you don’t want to do this right now, of course, we can talk about this later,” Napoleon said easily, though his heart fell at the thought. “I am sorry to spring this upon you, to bring this up now. If it helps any, I had intended to be… more sophisticated about my proposal, to focus much more on bringing us together. I moved too fast, I know.”

He was backing up, moving towards the stairs, but Illya leaned forward against the door, obviously at war with himself. “Where – where is Gaby?”

“Waiting,” Napoleon said, in the middle of the hallway, hovering. His heart leapt in his throat, and his body began to thrum with anticipation. “We took a cab, because we – both of us – didn’t want to pressure you. We can definitely revisit this topic at another time, Illya.” He softened his voice, gentled his tone. “You do _not_ have to make a decision now.”

Illya licked his lips, glanced down at the stairs and then at Napoleon. There was naked need in his eyes, a desperate desire to have what Napoleon was offering. “Solo… Napoleon,” he said, voice croaking out of his throat. “I do not – I cannot – if—”

“Forget – forget what anyone, what my people, what your people, say about this. Is this something you want? Something you wish to have for yourself?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Illya ground out, voice deep and heavy.

“I will call Gaby up,” Napoleon promised, practically running down the stairs to get Gaby and bring her upstairs.

***

Of course it wasn’t that easy. Firstly, there was the fact that this was a false heat; Illya wouldn’t become as desperate as if he was experiencing a true heat, and so he could still feel embarrassment. And, secondly, he _was_ embarrassed. Even Gaby was, to a degree – it really wasn’t socially acceptable to abandon reason and immerse one’s self in their baser desires. Thirdly, just how _did_ one walk into a dear friend’s apartment and simply start doing the beast with two backs?

Thankfully, Napoleon was a hedonist, and enjoyed teaching them his ways.

Currently, Gaby was lying down on Illya’s (tiny) bed, neck arched as she gripped onto Illya’s headboard and let him go to town between her legs. And Illya was enthusiastically and reverently slipping through her folds, spreading her beautiful legs to reveal a lightly trimmed bush of dark hair, velvety pink skin, slick wetness painting her inner thighs.

Illya, also, was slick – barely. Napoleon knew this wasn’t a true heat, and perhaps Illya was an omega who never would get a true heat. In any case, the slickness was nowhere near enough to even think about breaching Illya’s fluttering hole. Instead, Napoleon was just sliding his cock between Illya’s thighs, nudging his cock up behind Illya’s balls, one hand curled beneath Illya’s body, using wetness from both Illya and Gaby to give Illya a fist to thrust into. Illya was groaning happily, a basso counterpart to Gaby’s high-pitched sighs and little gasps.

Napoleon was in heaven.

Their scents were mingling, a beautiful symphony that symbolized pack, that meant _home_ and _safety_ and _family_. Napoleon’s thrusts were becoming more and more erratic, and in response he began to fist Illya’s cock tighter. Which, of course, sent off a chain reaction, as Illya began to grunt and thrust his tongue into Gaby’s cunt. Her hips were already jerking, and now her thighs pressed against Illya’s shoulders.

Moving his free hand from Illya’s waist to Illya’s hole, Napoleon carefully – _gently_ – played with the rim, the edge of it, teasing what could happen one day, what he hoped would happen one day, and with a growl, Illya shoved fingers into Gaby’s pussy, clamped his thighs tighter around Napoleon’s cock.

Embarrassingly, Napoleon came first, spilling between Illya’s thighs, but Illya was right behind him, moaning out his completion. He pulled back from licking his way into Gaby’s center, and Napoleon kissed him deeply, feeling Gaby’s wetness slide against his nose, his cheek, his lips. Then Napoleon, tired and wrung out and exhilarated all at once, pushed past Illya’s broad shoulders and aggressively thrust his fingers into Gaby, searching for that one spot, as he took her clit into his mouth and sucked.

She let out a high-pitched yelp, hands jumping down to grip Napoleon’s hair, pulling it, and her hips stuttered against his face before falling back to the mattress.

They didn’t have a lot of space – Illya’s bed _was_ tiny – but in a mutual decision they agreed that Illya should be on the bottom, Napoleon shoved between Illya and the wall, Gaby mostly on Illya’s chest and a little on Napoleon.

“This was good,” she murmured, running her fingers over Illya’s shoulder, the tips of her fingers grazing Napoleon’s chest.

“Much,” Illya sighed out, and he looked less flushed, more comfortable.

Napoleon smiled smugly. “My ideas are always good.”

“Monaco,” Gaby murmured.

Illya grunted. “Marrakesh.”

Together, they added, “Bangkok.”

Napoleon sighed. “Well, I’ll always have you two to keep me humble.”

There was silence, and for a minute, Napoleon thought he’d overstepped, that they weren’t ready for a real relationship.

Then – “Someone needs to keep your ego in check,” Gaby chuckled, her fingers brushing Napoleon’s nose.

“I – like this. It is not Russian way, but. Still good,” Illya murmured.

Napoleon pressed his face against Illya’s shoulder and reveled in his family.

“Next time,” Gaby said suddenly, “we do this in my apartment. My bed is bigger.”

Illya sighed. “You control your emotions through denial,” he said simply. “I have indulged. Too much. Why this has happened now.”

Napoleon ran that through his head twice before propping himself up on his elbow, brow furrowed. “Are you saying,” he said slowly, “that this is your first heat?”

“No,” Illya said, shaking his head a little, cracking open one eye to look at Napoleon, insulted. “My second.”

“Russians control their heats, and their ruts, by – what, making sure they don’t have a nice apartment?”

Illya twitched one shoulder in what would have been a shrug. “Do not eat too much. Cold showers. Severity. I eat too much with you two.”

It sounded a lot like Illya had been starving himself to trick his body into thinking it was _not_ a safe environment to have a heat.

Illya’s eyes were closed again, but Napoleon and Gaby met each other’s gaze. They would definitely do their best to pamper and treat Illya as he deserved to be treated.

And they would have a long while to do so, hopefully.


End file.
